


A Little Bit of Sweetness

by MercuryGray



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: 18th Century, Baked Goods, F/M, Flirting, Historical Accuracy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 12:48:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6079857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuryGray/pseuds/MercuryGray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robert Townsend loves his family dearly, but he bought his boarding house in York City to move away from their constant interference in seemingly every aspect of his life -- including the matter of whether or not he happily chooses to remain a bachelor. But nothing, it seems, is going to save him from the very keen interest of certain young ladies of his acquaintance -- and his sister Sarah's quickly evolving plans upon the issue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Bit of Sweetness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MontmartreParapluie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MontmartreParapluie/gifts), [truth_universally_acknowledged](https://archiveofourown.org/users/truth_universally_acknowledged/gifts).



> Don't know why Tumblr picked this week to seemingly spam me with Robert Townsend screencaps. Don't know why the presence of that gentleman suddenly merited a fic. Yet here we are. 
> 
> I've been kicking around this idea for a while, except in the original concept the young lady in question was a Quaker of the old-fashioned 'thee-thou' school. Then suddenly she was of a Dutch family of the old New York variety, and she was baking things, and...it spiraled from there. My apologies in advance to any native speakers of Dutch -- I had to rely heavily on Google Translate and hope for the best.
> 
> To MontmartreParapluie and Truth_Universally_Acknowledged, who both encouraged me shamelessly and both had their own small role in inspiring the character of Johanna. Much thanks to the both of you.

If there was one thing Robert Townsend  _ hated _ , it was interfering families.

 

He had moved to New York on the slim promise that it would be good for him -- good for his business interests, good to get away from his father’s politics and his sister’s plans and his entire family’s...involvement in his life! A quiet adulthood was his only wish. To be left alone with his business and his account books and watch his pennies turn into shillings, and from shillings into guineas, and avoid his father’s.... _ complications. _

 

But they would visit, wouldn’t they? And at the most inconvenient times. 

 

Robert looked at the front room of the coffee house and his father and sister, sitting at a table near the window enjoying the general bustle in the room around them, and sighed. No sooner had he written to them of his having sold the boarding house and they were hounding him for news of his newest venture.  _ We’ll come and visit,  _ they said. And here they were.

 

It was bad enough that he had Woodhull and the rest to worry about -- and now his family was here to complicate it all.

 

He poured out two dishes of coffee for his father and sister, making his way through the room to set them down at their places, silently lamenting his father’s choice in reading material, a broadsheet he’d brought with him from home, and one not really in keeping with the political tone of the rest of the coffee house, at that. “Interesting crowd you get here,” his father remarked, folding up his paper and taking an experimental sip of his coffee. He pulled a face at the bitter flavor, and reached for the sugar bowl, ladling in a few chunks and stirring furiously. Sarah, observing the example of her father, took a sip and made no expression, content, it seemed, to take it ‘black.’

 

“An interesting beverage,” she remarked, watching her brother sit down with a twinkle in her eye. Robert knew his sister was more aware of the discomfort her visits caused, but that did not seem to stop her from making them. “Do you find the business a little more steady than the boarding house?”

 

“Certainly the clientele is a little less varied,” his father observed candidly, looking around at the preponderance of red coats around the chairs.

 

“The income is greater, certainly,” Robert acknowledged, pulling up a chair and wondering how long he would be expected to entertain his family.

 

“And your….your partner? What do you think of him?” Samuel Townsend asked quietly, his back turned to the gentleman in question, sitting in state in a corner at the opposite end of the room. Robert looked over his father’s shoulder to survey the man in question. Yes, what did he think of James Rivington, publisher, entrepreneur and man about town? He didn’t trust the man, certainly -- being in business with him had taught him that much, at least. There was something...odd, about him, something inherently suspicious. Perhaps it was the way he made friends with everyone that made Robert uneasy -- but then, Sarah would say he was uneasy about everything.

 

The door opened and closed, bringing with it a heavenly smell of almonds and yeast, and the atmosphere in the room changed considerably -- though whether that was for the baked goods on offer, or the cheerful little maid bringing them Robert was never sure.

 

“Miss Gaansvoort, you have clearly stolen something out of heaven’s bakery this morning,” Rivington said with one of his smiles, rising from his chair to greet the bakery maid and survey the wares upon her tray.  (And, Robert was a little displeased to see, the...ahem, other charms located above the tray’s current location at her waist, modestly hidden behind a scarf. If there was one thing Robert sincerely disliked about his buisness partner, it was his his compulsion to chase, kiss and fondle nearly anyone of the female persuasion. It was becoming hard to keep good help. Thankfully, Sarah did not seem to catch his eye.)

 

“ _ Goedemorgen _ , Mr. Rivington,” the maid with the bakery tray said with a smile, dropping a little curtsey. “Only  _ hoenigkoeke  _ and my mother’s  _ appeltaart,  _ and some  _ amandelbroojes _ . Mama doesn’t usually make them outside of Christmas, but there were almonds at the market yesterday.”

 

“Wonderful,” Rivington pronounced. “Mr. Townsend will have your bill,  and Hettie will take your tray -- and I shall have one of these,” he said with a smile, picking up one of the slices of the honey cake, a perennial favorite in the coffeehouse, and took a large, pleased bite with relish. “Delicious, gentleman!” he pronounced with pride, allowing Hettie, the coffee house’s  current serving girl, to descend into the back with her pile of goodies, a few hungry faces following in her wake.

 

Miss Gaansvoort turned, searching the coffeehouse for Robert, and, upon finding him, smiled and made her way over, wiping her hands neatly on the corner of her apron. Clearly not the one she’d been baking in this morning -- a clean one, neatly pressed, to match her cap. Robert did have one thing to say for the Gaansvoorts - the whole family was extremely well dressed. Not like some of the other tradesman he had dealt with at the tavern, butchers and vegetable wholesalers covered in the evidence of their trade. When the baker delivered his goods (or one of his children, Johanna or Maarten) they were clean and pressed and very well turned out.

 

“Mr. Townsend.” The young woman dipped a little curtsey, waiting for Townsend to open his book, which he did, in his own good time, as he did every week.

 

“Miss Gaansvoort. I imagine the almond cookies will be extra this week.” 

 

“Three pence a peice -- and there are three  _ dozijn,  _ so -- an extra three shillings.”

 

Robert checked his book and made a notation in it. “Something of a risk for us, I think.” He felt himself bound at least to say that he was not overly fond of when the bakery brought things they did not order.

 

Miss Gaansvoort smiled. “Do you find yourselves throwing out much merchandise for spoilage, Mr. Townsend?” Her smile broadened at his silence. It was true -- they had no problem whatever selling anything the Gaansvoorts supplied them -- indeed, there had been weeks when he had been obliged to send a boy over to the bakery for a second order. “When you find you’re not selling it come and tell my  _ moder  _ and she will see what she can find to tempt your patrons again.”

 

“I’ll be by your father’s shop later to settle our account this month,” Townsend said with a fair smile, closing his book hoping to end the conversation as quickly as possible, before --

 

“Robert, where are your manners? Introduce us, please.”

Damn.  His sister had one of her smiles on again, and a twinkle in her eye. Sarah would notice these things, wouldn’t she. Did nothing change?  He resisted the urge to roll his eyes at Sarah and settled for an abbreviated scowl. “Miss Gaansvoort, my father, Samuel Townsend, and my sister, Miss Townsend. Father, Sarah- this is our baker’s daughter, Miss Gaansvoort. They bake...all our sweets.”

 

“Delighted to meet you, my dear. I believe we had some of your apple...tart this morning for breakfast!” Samuel pronounced with a smile. “Magnificent.”

 

“I’ll tell my  _ moder _ you said so,” she said with a smile.

 

“My mother used to bake something similar,” Sarah remembered aloud. “She was an excellent baker -- a talent I wish I could say I inherited. She used to bake these spice cookies that Robert would eat by the dozen!”

 

“I cannot see Mr. Townsend being a glutton,” the little bakeress replied with a smile, surveying Robert’s reasonably trim figure for some sign of hidden appetites. “He eats so little now. Unlike Mr. Rivington,” she added, glancing back into the corner, where the other proprietor was still working on his slice of honey cake.

 

“I don’t think Robert told us where your family’s shop is,” his sister observed with interest.

 

“We have a counter on Little George Street,” the young woman replied. “And we would be happy to see you there any time, Miss Townsend.  Your brother is one of our best customers.”

 

“We shall have to call,” Sarah said with a smile. “Do not let us keep you -- I am sure you have many more deliveries to make.”

 

Miss Gaansvoort bobbed another curtsey to the table, and one to Robert, and made her way back outside, where another young man -- her brother, Maarten -- stood waiting with the push-cart that held the rest of their wares. A good business -- they had the storefront, and the cart, and a number of other clients who bought in baked goods where they could not manufacture their own. Robert waited until they had cleared the corner before turning back to his sister with a murderous look. “Why did you tell that infernal story about mother’s cakes?”

 

“She  _ likes you,  _ Robert! Did you not see her smile when she said she could not imagine you a glutton? And when you were not looking her eyes were always upon you.”

 

“She’s kind to everyone, Sarah, it is merely good buisness,” Robert said testily, settling back into his chair. Sarah rolled her eyes and continued drinking her coffee, now moderately cool. He knew that look all too well. “You are not to -- Sarah! I’m not -- she is not --This is not a debate I wish to have at present,” he hissed as quietly as he could. “And I wish you would stop smiling in that infernal way as if you were planning something.”

 

“I plan nothing,” Sarah said innocently over the rim of her coffee cup, directing her attention to the broadsheet in front of her.   _ Liar,  _ Robert thought to himself, settling back into his account book. He’d turn his back and she’d be up to something.

 

And sure enough, that afternoon after luncheon and their walk through the city she was gone without notice, coming back several hours later with no indication about where she’d been (she’d mumbled something about a stationers, but she did not write that many letters, truly) and no word at all for her brother when he inquired.

 

It was not soon enough but that he was finally rid of them back to Oyster Bay, and he could return to the business of the coffee shop in peace. 

 

Robert liked order. He liked his account books just so, his rooms tidied in a precise fashion, and his life to maintain some semblance of order. Which was why he settled his accounts on specific days. It was good to be predictable -- when one had a routine, people were more willing to extend credit in bad times to balance out the prompt settlements done in periods of plenty.

 

He paid his debts to the Gaansvoorts on the last Saturday of the month. Monday was when their new stock was delivered, and the profits from the preceding four weeks were usually enough to pay for the order. (A three penny bun became three and ha’penny, and the patrons paid gladly -- and drank more penny cups of coffee, too. So there was profit enough to go around.)

 

Approaching the little shop on Little George Street was always a challenge. Set back in somewhat more desireable neighborhood, the street in front of the shop was always busy -- not helped, of course, by the delicious smells on constant display outside of the bakery.

 

A little bell over the door rang as he opened it, and Miss Gaansvoort looked up from behind the counter, where she’d been reading a book. “Mr. Townsend! Here about your accounts?”

 

“Is your father about?” Robert asked carefully, inspecting the trays of  _ koekjes _ on the counter. She nodded, dipping into the back, her shout of “ _ PAPA!  _ _ Meneer  _ _ Townsend is hier over zijn factuur.” _

 

A few moments later, Mr. Gaansvoort descended. A portly man who, it was quite obvious, had never been immune to the charms of his own craft, he smiled in the manner of a _patroon_ welcoming a guest to the family mansion.  “ _Meneer_ Townsend! A pleasure to see you. Always you look so thin -- you are not eating my wife’s _hoenigkoeke_ , I think? Please, come, this way.   _Een klein kopje koffie_ , while we talk, ja? Maarten!” His son stuck his head around the corner, sleeves rolled to the elbows.  “ _Kijk naar de voorzijde, terwijl we praten..._ ”

 

The younger Gaansvoort made his way to the front of the shop to watch for customers while his father and Robert made their way upstairs to the family’s living quarters and their offices.

 

“Sit, please, _ja_ , here,” Gaansvoort said, pulling out a chair at the family’s dining table. “Marta! _Koffie, voor_ _Meneer_ Townsend! 

 

No sooner had Mr. Gaansvoort called for his wife than she appeared, cap snowy and, like her daughter, a hostess’s gracious and charming smile fixed on as she carried in the coffee service, accompanied by a plate of wafer-thin cookies. “ _ Meneer _ Townsend! A pleasure.”

 

“Mrs. Gaansvoort.” Robert doffed his hat and gave his best bow before sitting down. He might be their customer, and here to pay his bill, but it did not cost him anything to be mannerly -- and good manners had gotten his delivery time moved earlier and the rates for  _ appeltaart _ decreased substantially.

 

“Did you like the  _ amandelbroojes?  _ Not usually something for this time of year, but there were almonds at the market.”

 

“Delicious, as always. They were gone in two days.” Well, three, but let her think it was two. She colored and smiled at the implied compliment. 

 

“Next week perhaps we make you  _ oranjekoeke _ , for something new,” the Gaansvoort matron said with a smile, pouring out the coffee with a certain elegance that comes from performing the office often and serving it out to her husband and his client. Robert took a moment to appreciate the smell -- he wasn’t sure how Mrs. Gaansvoort roasted her coffee, but it always seemed better than what they served at Rivington’s. (Though he was sure hers did not sit and stew, as theirs sometimes did.) A sip, and an appreciative smile -- heavenly.

 

“So, to business?” Gaansvoort asked, after Robert had taken sufficient time to appreciate his coffee. “I have here ...thirty shillings, from and the one for delivery, ja?”

 

“Correct by me, sir,” Robert said, not even bothering to open his account book. Gaansvoort was an honest man -- unlike some of the other tradesmen that he dealt with. And the sum was correct -- he liked to commit these things to memory first. A small exercise to strengthen the mind for other tasks where one might not want to take a written note. He withdrew a purse from his pocket and counted out the shillings onto the table in piles of ten, leaving the last on its own. (The wonderful thing about crown officers was that they nearly always paid in coin -- a privilege Robert then liked to extend to others.)

 

He took another sip of his coffee and eyed the plate of cookies with a half-hidden, wistful glance. Not that it would be anything but delicious -- if he was being perfectly honest, he loved the Gaansvoorts’ treats almost more than Rivington did. (But the men in his family tended to stoutness, and he wished to avoid that fate for as long as nature might allow. So he abstained --except for those rare occasions on Sunday evenings when there was still a quarter of  _ appeltaart _ left with the new delivery coming in the morning… _ Then _ he was the glutton his sister remembered. But not before.)

 

He picked up one of the cookies, admiring the thinness, and took a bite. It crumbling tantalizingly on the tip of his tongue. Then another, larger bit, and he could not help but close his eyes, savoring. This was like his mother’s but...so much more. The smell alone would have been enough to bring him back to childhood, but the taste...He smiled at the memory and opened his eyes -- only to see Johanna herself, lingering in the doorway with a knowledgeable grin on her face, looking very pleased with herself. He suddenly felt very out of place and very self-conscious. Had she been watching him?  To see what he would think? But...how had she known to bake --  _ Sarah!  _

 

Confound that interfering sister of his.

 

The baker counted a second time and nodded happily, taking each of the stacks and dropping them into a little cloth bag, which his wife soon spirited away to a strongbox in the back room. “And how is  _ je vader en je zus?  _ Johanneke said she met them this week, in the  _ koffiehuis.” _

 

Robert pulled his attention away from Johanna back to her father and the buisness at hand.“Very well, sir. They wished to see the venture -- they had not been before,” he explained. Gaansvoort nodded, his face  suddenly brightening. 

 

“And I think we saw  _ Mevrouw  _ Townsend with our Johanna the other day! Is that not right,  _ lieveling _ ? His sister came here?” Gaansvoort leaned over the back of his chair to ask his daughter.

 

“ _ Ja _ , Papa. She came to see the shop. I told her I wished she would visit her brother more often,” the baker’s daughter said with a smile, her eyes fixed on Robert as though daring him to disagree with her.

 

Robert resisted the urge to scowl and fixed his most pleasant smile on, the one he reserved for particularly annoying customers (and, occasionally, his buisness partner.) “Thank you for the coffee, and the cookies, Mrs. Gaansvoort, Miss Gaansvoort.”

 

“And you see Maarten and Johanneke next week,” Gaansvoort said with a smile, rising from his chair. “ _Dank u wel_!

 

Business concluded, Robert descended the stairs, nodding to Maarten on his way out and beginning his quick walk back to Rivington’s.

 

“Mr. Townsend!” It was Johanna, running after him, her cap nearly flying off, a bundle in her hand. “You didn’t say what you thought of the cookies,” she said with a prim kind of grin, finally catching up to him.

 

“I think my sister needs to stop meddling, if we are being honest,” Robert said frankly. He was not feeling particularly patient at present -- probably because again, if he was being honest, he rather wished he could have stayed another quarter hour and finished his coffee and the rest of the entire  _ plate _ of cookies. Part of him relished taking coffee with the Gaansvoorts, because -- if he was being honest -- there was something...comforting about the rooms above their shop, something he could not explain, and had not felt in his own family home for a long time. He hated to leave, and it frayed his patience to have to go back to the bustle of Rivingtons after the peace and quiet of the bakery. 

 

“She only gave me the recipe to try,” Johanna explained. “She said she worries about you, that you always look thin when she comes. Sad.” Her normally smiling face was serious and absolutely sincere. “And...she’s not the only one,” she added with a little hinting smile, carefully meeting his eyes. Robert felt something sputter in his chest.  “I didn’t mean to offend you -- and  I hope I made them right. There’s no substitute for mothers.” She held up the package in her hand -- the rest of the cookies, wrapped in a towel. “For later?” she offered. 

 

Robert glanced at the bundle and remembered his own mother’s cookies, flat, uninviting looking circles that bloomed with flavor inside the mouth. She did not make them often -- but when she did...Oh, those were good memories for Robert. “It was very kind of you to trouble yourself,” he said stiffly, feeling a little like an ass. It  _ had _ been a kind gesture. She smiled, and then, without warning, leaned in close to give him a peck on the cheek. Robert felt his whole body flush, wondering what her neighbors must be thinking to see them as close as this out in the street. 

 

“For smiling,” she explained, her own cheeks a charming shade of pink. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile like that.” She took a step back, still smiling with all the pleasure of cat at a dish of cream, and then turned on her heel to walk leisurely back to the shop, leaving Robert standing in Little George street with a parcel of cookies and absolutely no idea what to do with himself, a thousand different thoughts running through his us.

 

_ She likes you, Robert...did you not see her eyes...she worries about you, and she’s not the only one... _ A kiss for smiling -- and a bundle of cookies, baked just for him.

 

Robert stopped and looked down at the package in his hands, carefully unloosening the knot and nudging one cookie -- a broken one -- out of its wrapping so he could nibble on it on the way home.  The cookie was sweet and spicy, with the tiniest bit of pepper in it.  _ A little like its maker, I think,  _ he found himself thinking.

 

He  _ had _ to smile at that comparison, and ate the rest of the cookie without shame.

 

On Monday Maarten and Johanna made their rounds again, carrying in the trays with the usual cakes and tarts. Robert made his notation in his ledger, as he usually did, and almost let her go before he said what he had been practicing all Sunday long. “Miss Gaansvoort! A moment, if you please.” 

 

She stopped at the door and turned around, quietly interested. Robert swallowed nervously, his palms a little damp.“Your cookies last week were...delicious. I would like to try them again some time. And the...the little bit ...of sweetness with them. That ...was ...good ...as well.” He hoped she knew what he meant.

 

Now it was Johanna’s turn to color a little, but she did not duck her head in embarrassment as other girls might have done. “You’ll have to come by the shop, sir,” she said with her own indomitable smile. “I’ll see what we can do for you about some more.” And, declaration made, she made her way back out to the cart so they could move off. He was just about to look away when he saw her look back and touch a hand to her lips, flicking her fingers away as though she were throwing something at him. 

 

Robert felt the sputter in his chest again, and remembered the brush of lips on his cheek. A little bit of sweetness, he was discovering, was not always a bad thing.

**Author's Note:**

> A shout-out, again, to Google Translate for the heaving lifting on the Dutch. As I am not a speaker of that language, or any linguistically close cousins, any word choice, syntax, and historical correctness issues are entirely my own. The Gaansvoort parents immigrated to the New World and their children were born here. Both children speak excellent English, but also Dutch at home -- hence the bilingual conversations in the bakery.
> 
> Credit, also to the Dutch Cooking blog for the ideas on the Gaansvoort's repertoire of dishes. I tried to pick things with ingredients available to the 18th century cook, not having any 18th century Dutch cookbooks to consult. The address for the bakery in Little George Street was borrowed from the only baker I could find listed in the 1786 New York City Directory -- one Emmanuel Ziller.
> 
> Several depictions of various London coffee houses of the period show the drink being served in white, handle-less bowls -- hence the phrase 'a dish of coffee'. The depictions I consulted didn't readily show sugar and cream upon the table, but several contemporary cookbooks do mention serving coffee with heavy cream and with loaf sugar to hand. (Roasting your own coffee beans was also a big deal.)
> 
> James Rivington was Robert Townsend's business partner, and a rather shady character -- he appears, at various points, to be spying or exchanging information with both sides. (Any other character flaws are entirely my own invention.) He also published a newspaper that was very popular with the British Officer corps -- John Andre has several pieces of poetry published in its pages.
> 
> We don't know much about Townsend's sister Sarah other than that she was the subject of America's first valentine, written by none other than Captain John Graves Simcoe, (and quoted a little in Season Two of TURN!) and that she never married. I like to think she was the spunky lady depicted here.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it -- Robert really is a bit of a sad puppy for his appearances in Season Two, and I really just wanted to make him smile a little and feel loved. Hopefully you smiled a little as well.


End file.
